


A Kind of Substitution

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Friendships, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, mid-HLV, sort of, what's up with John?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock home from the hospital, Philip tries to be a better friend.   As it turns out, they have more in common than either of them would have thought. </p><p> </p><p>Set during <i>His Last Vow</i>, during the interstitial between Mary's reveal and Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a dark and foggy night. Philip sighed as he clocked off and strolled out into the street. He'd taken the Tube today, planning a stopover on the way home. He stopped to pick up some take-away to share then walked back out into the fog. Which was when he became aware of the black sedan. 

It was all shiny black with tinted windows and it had been rolling slowly down the street while he walked - not unusual, it was a street with a low speed limit. But it should have gone on its way while he was in the take-away shop; instead, it had parked at the kerb. Now it pulled slightly ahead of him and stopped. The driver got out and opened the rear door. "Get in the car, Doctor Anderson."

Philip's blood pressure immediately shot up but he replied, "I really don't think I will."

From within the car, a voice called, "You appear to believe you have a choice, Doctor Anderson. Get in." 

_Oh._ Philip sucked in a breath and got in to see an older gentleman with thinning ginger hair, fingers curled loosely over the handle of an umbrella, with eyes hard as stone and sharp as gimlets. Philip had once thought of Sherlock as a freak; that was because he hadn't yet met Sherlock's big brother.

"I am extremely displeased with you, Doctor Anderson," Mr. Holmes said and it was impossible to think of him as 'Mycroft,' he was definitely 'Mr. Holmes.'

"I sort of gathered you weren't in the habit of giving people rides because you worry for their safety," Philip's mouth said, completely without permission. 

"When I asked you to search my brother's flat for drugs, did I somehow imply that you were to supply a substitute?"

"Absinthe is legal actually it was never not legal it was never actually banned in the UK," Philip tried to get control of mouth but his tongue was having none of it. 

"That is hardly the point, Doctor Anderson."

"Redirection is a perfectly valid management strategy and I didn't see you offering any support." _Oh my god Philip SHUT! UP!_

That clearly nettled Mr. Holmes, to judge by the way he shifted and narrowed his gaze, "I assure you, my brother has all the support he requires."

"For his addiction, maybe, but not for the underlying issues driving it," Philip countered.

"You seem very certain about that."

"I know a broken heart when I see one, Mr. Holmes."

Mr. Holmes gave a short bark of unamused laughter, "A 'broken heart,'" and the quotation marks were all too clearly audible, which was something of a feat, "Is that what you think he suffers from? How novel. I don't believe that anyone has ever made that accusation of my brother before."

"I doubt they ever will of you, either." _SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP oh god do I have a death wish or something??_

Mr. Holmes shifted again and glowered. "It appears your association with my brother has eroded your manners."

"No, being kidnapped by a control freak does that." _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!_ "Pretty certain you're a big driving issue yourself right there from what I saw of how you talked to him back at his flat." _ohgodohgodohgodWHATTHEHELLISWRONGWITHME???_

"Apparently you believe my threats to be empty," Mr. Holmes said through gritted teeth. 

"I saw one of your family pictures once apparently your parents hadn't married yet when you were conceived." _WHY THE FUCK DID I SAY THAT??_ The car stopped at a light and Philip shot out, praying the fog would cover his tracks quickly.

* * * *

Footsteps ran up the seventeen steps, then the door was jerked open and slammed shut with the sound of a body slumping against it. There was the sound of rough panting over the music and the smell of lukewarm takeaway drifted. When no words came, Sherlock cracked an eye open and looked at the shadow figure. Whoever it was was shaking like a leaf and was sliding down the door to sit with a thump on the floor. "What's the matter?"

"Imighthavecalledyourbrotheranillegitimatechild."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle, "He gave you a lift, did he? I take it he was angry about the absinthe?"

"Just a little."

"Did he threaten you or bribe you?"

"He threatened me again."

"What exactly did you say?"

Philip told him and the flat boomed with Sherlock's laughter. "Oh well done, Philip, there might be hope for you yet." Sherlock switched on a lamp then reached for his phone and pressed a few buttons. "That ought to take care of it."

"Thanks," Philip shook himself and got up off the floor, "I brought you some take-away. It was hot before I was kidnapped."

"Yes, he likes doing that." Sherlock struggled to sit up from where he lay on the couch and Philip came over to help him. He'd only just got out of hospital and everything still ached inside. "There's tea made. Although it's probably soup by now, actually."

"It's fine. I can make some fresh, if you like," Philip said, heading towards the kitchen. 

"Are there still fingers in the microwave? I wasn't expecting to be gone for so long."

"Nope, but there is a small bowl with lemon slices." Philip took it out and replaced it with the take-away containers.

"Ah, that'll be Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's phone rang and he reached for it with a grin and turned up the volume. He took the call and the strains of ABBA's _Dancing Queen_ spilled out of the speaker. "Brother dear, stop antagonising the people who are useful to me."

"Point taken," Mycroft's voice grated, "Now turn it off!"

Sherlock cut the call and pressed another button, chuckling. "That ought to do it."

"Thanks," Philip sighed, "I take it he doesn't like ABBA?"

"It might be useful to remember that if he bothers you again," Sherlock snickered.

"He's not much like you, is he."

"You're hardly the first to make that observation. It nettles him."

"It's not much of an observation," Philip said and gestured to where the Holmes family portrait sat on a bookshelf, mostly hidden behind a stack of papers, "It's obvious. You've got your Mum's lips and eyes and your Da's cheekbones, but your brother has..."

"All the recessive genes, yes," Sherlock snickered again, "I did have DNA tests run once but unfortunately everything matched up."

"Right," Philip chuckled. He brought the take-away containers out to Sherlock and handed him a cup of tea. His eyes flicked briefly towards the empty absinthe glass with the perforated spoon balanced across it.

Sherlock followed his glance as he took the tea. "It does help," he said, "Thanks for that. I'm actually a little surprised by the degree of clarity I can achieve with it. It'll do."

"Ah, good," Philip smiled, "Glad I could help." Sherlock took a few bites of the take-away then lay back on the couch again with a pained sigh. "If you need anything else, text me, yeah? I'm hardly doing anything these days once I'm clocked off." 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, "Thanks." 

Philip smiled and took his leave. He walked back into the fog and didn't notice the shorter figure glaring at him from the door of Speedy's.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You told me you weren't coming. You said you were sitting down to tea."
> 
> "I bloody well left my tea! And that's not the worst of it! No the worst of it was that you've replaced me with HIM!"

(Oct 17 18:27 SH: Case. Art gallery. Guard framed.)  
(Oct 17 18:28 SH: Pun not intended.)

(Oct 17 18:30 John Watson: No.)

(Oct 17 18:31 SH: Art theft gone wrong. Pinned on security guard, guard says he's innocent, wants us to prove.)

(Oct 17 18:32 John Watson: I'm not doing this, Sherlock.)  
(Oct 17 18:32 John Watson: I've had a long day and I'll have another one tomorrow. I'm not doing it.)  
(Oct 17 18:33 John Watson: And I've just sat down to tea.)  
(Oct 17 18:34 John Watson: I'm not going to be dragged out on your beck and call.)

Sherlock sighed. Molly was on duty and couldn't leave. Besides, the guard worked at... He pressed another button on his phone. 

The call connected. "Help me, I'm watching _Oprah._ "

And he broke into a grin, "Then I suppose it's a good thing I phoned. We can't have your brain rotting now that you've begun to use it."

"Ha ha," Philip said, "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one. I've been engaged by one Arnold Shelby, an employee at your security firm. Art theft gone wrong. Pull whatever you can find on him and meet me at the scene." He gave Philip the directions as he hailed a cab.

"I'll be there." A short while later, he was, with his kit, his tablet, and all the information about the client he could dig up. His eyes skimmed around the crime scene, already mentally tagging evidence. "I deeply regret all of those times I criticised you for being excited about being on a crime scene, because here's me doing exactly the same thing," he announced. Sherlock smirked at him. 

"Who the hell are you?!"

Philip looked up, "Oh, hello McKenzie."

"Sherlock!!" Inspector Lestrade strode over to clasp the taller man's hand, "McKenzie, this is Sherlock Holmes, my best consultant."

A brief hush fell over the Yard team as they stared. Sherlock noticed some new faces and said, "And this is my assistant, Philip Anderson, freelance forensic scientist, formerly of the Met until they sacked him for being right." 

Philip could have melted but managed to stay on task. He'd noticed who was lurking in the background of the team. He kept his game face on but knew that the sight of Sherlock Holmes telling God and Lestrade and Sally and everybody that he, Philip Anderson, had been right, was something that would keep him warm at night until he took it to his grave. 

"So where's John?" Lestrade asked.

"Unavailable," Sherlock's tone was clipped.

"Alright. What's got you interested?"

"Your prime suspect," Sherlock said and explained.

Lestrade shook his head. "If there's a chance of a false arrest, have at it," he said, "But it looks pretty tight so far. We weren't sure why someone would try to steal the painting, it's not very special, but that may have been an attempt at cover-up for the real motive. Shelby's movements and domestic situation match up and McKenzie's found the murder weapon." He flipped out a bag containing a wire garrot. 

Sherlock glanced at it then looked again at the body. "No he hasn't."

"Sherlock?" Philip interjected. He was inspecting the back of a painting, "You'll want to see this." 

Sherlock was immediately at his side, peering at the picture wire. He pulled out his magnifying glass and inspected the wire closely. He took the painting from Philip's hands and tilted it, then pointed at the neat, nearly invisible slice in the backing paper at the extreme side of the frame, "Here." Philip carefully pried open the slice and swabbed inside, between the backing paper and the painting. 

Lestrade came over, "What have you got?"

"Here's your real murder weapon," Sherlock said, "The picture wire. The size of the wound is just a bit too small for the garrot but it'll match the wire. The killer wiped off the blood but this wire is porous, look."

Lestrade looked. He shook his head, "Damn! That's awfully close, though."

"Not close enough."

"Ding ding ding, we have a winner," Philip announced, looking at the test tube he'd been shaking, "Methamphetamine."

"Smuggled inside the painting," Sherlock smirked, "Hence the attempt at theft."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose but nodded, "That changes everything." Philip pulled out his phone and sent off a text. "So much for the 'crime of passion' motive," Lestrade sighed, "When we learned that the victim had been sleeping with Shelby's wife, we thought we had a solid motive. And Shelby had no alibi."

Sherlock shook his head, "Shelby didn't do this. He's much too out of shape to have applied this much force. Your perpetrator is a much stockier man with very strong hands and arms. Check out Shelby's supervisor."

Lestrade shook his head, "Why the supervisor?"

"The supervisor would know Shelby's movements, habits, just about everything he'd need to know to set him up."

Philip looked up, "How about this?" 

Sherlock looked up to see the picture Philip was showing on his phone. "Just a bit of meth mouth developing, too."

Philip nodded, tapping buttons on his phone, "Yeah. He's a relief supervisor, started a few weeks ago, does back-up when it's busy or when a regular supervisor is sick, so he's not around often enough to attract much attention but enough to pick up information." 

Lestrade shook his head again, "Alright. I guess we'll need to track his movements."

"Already put in a requisition," Philip said.

Lestrade spread his hands, "Then I guess I'll let you know when we have a result." He walked away to phone in the requests. 

A quiet voice said, "You're working for the Freak, now?"

Philip didn't look up from packing up his kit, "I thought you would have learned from that whole disaster, Sally. I did." 

Donovan shifted uncomfortably and her tone turned venomous, "Sounds like he's practically sucking your cock now."

Philip stared at her. For a moment he wondered why he had ever tried to impress her. He certainly regretted listening to her. "Well," he said, "Perhaps I traded up for quality over quantity." He shouldered his pack and headed for the men's lavatory to wash his hands. 

His phone chirped. He downloaded the material to his tablet and went to find Lestrade, in time to see Doctor Watson storming down the hallway, yelling at Sherlock. 

"The case is solved, John," Sherlock replied, "Mostly."

"You could have said!" 

"You told me you weren't coming. You said you were sitting down to tea."

"I bloody well left my tea! And that's not the worst of it!"

"I don't understand, John."

"No the worst of it," said John, "Was that you've replaced me with HIM!"

Philip blinked and glanced at Lestrade, who bit his lip.

Sherlock sounded puzzled. "You said you were unavailable. I needed an assistant. Philip has access to useful resources."

"Oh, and he's 'Philip' now." John was either a terrible judge of hearing range or he didn't care.

"You told me I needed to make an effort."

"What happened to 'Anderson won't work with me?'"

"He changed his mind."

"You couldn't even stand the man's face!"

"He's covered it up." 

Philip's hand went to his forehead as he tried to decide whether to die of mortification or laughter. Lestrade bit down on a smirk and returned Philip's puzzled glance. They listened while John continued to chew out Sherlock then stormed off, leaving Sherlock radiating 'I'm confused' despite his composed face. "Jesus," Philip sighed as he approached, "He sounded just like my ex whenever she sees me out with Benji." Sherlock looked at him but said nothing. "My flat's not far. D'you want to swing by and grab some nosh?"

Sherlock thought about it. The case was technically solved but the altercation with John had killed his usual post-case euphoria. He wanted to just go straight back to Baker Street but... Finally he nodded, without quite knowing why.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're shutting down again. You were much more open when you first came back. Now you're closing yourself off again. London is home but something about being here is making you defensive and you're cutting yourself off again."

Sherlock had been silent the whole way back to Philip's flat. Close examination of his microexpressions revealed that he was feeling sore but reluctant to admit it. He was also feeling hurt in another way. Now Philip puttered about the kitchen, having settled Sherlock on the couch. His text alert chimed just as Philip was bringing out bowls of supper. The contents of the text made Sherlock smile with satisfaction. 

"Well done," he said, "Waterford collapsed under questioning. They found a shirt in his recycling with blood spatter on the cuffs matching that of the victim."

Philip grinned as he settled onto his chair, "So Shelby's off the hook."

"Mm. I'll collect from him later," Sherlock decided, "What are we listening to?"

"It's a podcast called _Welcome to Night Vale,_ " Philip answered, "I like stuff that totally defies physics, that way I'm not hollaring at the telly."

Sherlock snickered, "John hated when I'd do that. Or he professed to hate it, anyways. He certainly seemed to encourage it."

That was something Philip had noticed: John always figured into Sherlock's conversation somewhere. He ate, listening as Sherlock described how John would always put on crime drama programmes and inexplicably expect Sherlock _not_ to work it out within the first five minutes. "My ex-wife did the same thing," Philip chuckled, "I worked in forensics, of course I'm going to comment! She actually **meant** it, though."

"Hm, true, John was doing it deliberately. He found it more entertaining than the actual programme, even though he pretended not to," Sherlock said. He cocked an eyebrow at Philip, "'Quality over quantity?'"

Philip choked on his beer, "Oh my god you heard that of course you did... Sally was being... well, _Sally._ She hasn't learned anything at all. Honestly, I look back now and I don't know what I saw in her."

"Revenge for your wife's adultery."

That was Sherlock for you. Philip nodded and sighed, "Not very smart revenge."

There was an odd pause as Sherlock tried to decide which to use of the thousand wiseass comebacks that jumped to mind. He settled for, "I really can't disagree."

Philip still burst out laughing. "Hey, thanks for standing up for me back there."

Sherlock shrugged. "You're getting better," he said, "I've noticed you're not theorising anymore."

"I've accepted I'm no good at it," Philip sighed.

"Good. What you're good at is tagging evidence. You see more than most; that's your strength. Where you fail is when you start theorising before you have it all together; that's your weakness. Stick with what you're good at."

Philip smiled hollowly, "I'm a security guard."

"Not for much longer, I should imagine. I'm told your dismissal is under review."

"Yeah, Greg mentioned something about that."

" ** _Greg!!_** " Sherlock shouted suddenly, " **WHY** can I _not_ remember his name?!"

"What, seriously?"

"I keep getting it wrong," Sherlock sighed, flopping back onto the couch, "It just won't stick."

"You use the 'mind palace' way of remembering things, right? Visuals?"

Sherlock blew out his lips in a sigh. "Names," he admitted, "I usually have trouble with names."

"Hmm." Philip thought about it then suggested, "Greg rhymes with peg."

"The way my luck's been running, I'll muff it and call him 'Peggy.'" 

"Maybe picture him hanging off a grey peg?"

That made Sherlock laugh, "Looking rather put out about it." His mobile rang and he thumbed it open. He drew a breath to speak then stalled. Philip cocked an eyebrow at the angry sounds coming through the speaker. Sherlock looked conciliatory, "I'm fine, John. I'm at Philip's flat." Now he looked confused, "You know I always eat after closing a case... I'm fine." Then his face abruptly went blank and stayed that way for the rest of the one-sided diatribe he was receiving. "Are you quite finished," he said in a chilly voice. He cut the call without waiting for an answer. 

"Well, the good news is, you've still got that ear," Philip ventured.

Sherlock didn't answer for several minutes. "I don't understand why he's acting like this."

"He's acting exactly like my ex," Philip sighed, shaking his head. He thought for a moment then reached for his rolling papers and bag. "Spliff?" he offered. 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him before a slow grin spread over his face, "Tch, and you were police."

"I said I knew self-medicating," Philip smirked as he rolled, "You have to be squeaky-clean to get onto the force but once you're there, you can get away with practically anything." He sighed, "Honestly, there are days when I'm glad I got sacked." 

Sherlock took the offered joint and lit it. He took a deep drag then made a face as he exhaled. "Hmph. Can't think much of your grade. I'll hook you up with Mrs. Hudson's supplier, she gets a much finer quality than this."

Philip paused. "Mrs. Hudson? Your landlady? The sweet little old lady?"

"Who had a small grow-op in the C flat before she started renting out the suites, yes."

"Oh my god!" Philip laughed, "That's like finding out that the nice grandmotherly lady who gave you candy is actually a dealer!"

"That's what it **is,** " Sherlock chuckled. "You did well, by the way. With the boltholes."

Philip finished his supper and took the dishes back into the kitchen, "Could've blown me over with a feather. I wasn't expecting **her.** "

"Who else would it have been?" Sherlock drawled scornfully, "You'd said yourself, it was an assassination attempt and the shooter was short, stocky, and most likely a woman. Given the relatively small number of female acquaintances in John's social circles, I believe the colloquial phrase is, 'Duh!'"

Philip felt a ripple of the old hostility and quashed it down. "Yeah I know. Still, you just don't want to believe it."

"And that's why the Met continues to fail."

Philip turned and looked at him speculatively. "You're shutting down again." Sherlock gave him a strange, puzzled look and he continued in a quiet tone, "You were much more open when you first came back. Now you're closing yourself off again. London is home but something about being here is making you defensive and you're cutting yourself off again."

Sherlock didn't reply. He stared down at the joint in his fingers. "Sometimes I wish I'd stayed dead," he whispered. And this was why he wasn't fond of marijuana, it made him chatty.

But Philip didn't do any of the usual expected responses. Instead he was silent, inhaled off his own joint and exhaled with a heavy sigh, "Can't say as I'd blame you for feeling that way. How is he taking the news?"

Sherlock sighed, "They still haven't sorted it out yet."

"I'm not sure that's the kind of thing that can be sorted," Philip said.

Sherlock shrugged, "John was a soldier. He had bad days."

"He's okay with his wife being an assassin?"

"Former assassin," Sherlock corrected, "She's trying to quit."

"Still..."

"A lot of assassins are former soldiers. It's different for John."

"That's pretty different," Philip said doubtfully.

Sherlock gave him a Look, "He's **my** best friend, Philip, and he lived with me for two years, **why** are you surprised by this?"

"He seems so normal!"

"I know, it's a flaw in his character." They both laughed.

Philip smoked thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Greg gets his consulting detective back, London gets its hero, John gets his wife... What do you get?"

Sherlock sighed and fell silent. Eventually he responded, "There's absinthe."


End file.
